The Life You're Building Can't Include Every Version of You

One of the strangest parts about changing is that you rarely notice it in yourself first.

You notice it in your relationships.

You notice it in the conversations that become shorter. You notice it in the invitations that slowly stop arriving. You notice it in the people who seem uncomfortable with answers that never bothered them before. You notice it in the silence after you've made a decision and, for the first time, you don't feel compelled to explain why you made it.

For a while, I mistook all of that as loss.

I assumed I was becoming more difficult. Less likable. Less accommodating. I wondered if maybe I had become too direct, too unavailable, too unwilling to smooth over uncomfortable moments. There is a certain loneliness that can accompany personal growth because the version of you that everyone knew begins to disappear before the version you are becoming feels fully established.

No one really talks about that part.

People celebrate change after it's complete. They admire confidence after it has settled into someone's bones. They compliment boundaries once they've become familiar. What they don't often acknowledge is the awkward season in the middle, where every instinct in your body is asking you to return to what was comfortable simply because it was familiar.

I remember feeling that pull more than once. Every relationship that became strained made me wonder if I should explain myself one more time. Maybe if they understood my intentions. Maybe if they knew what I meant. Maybe if I could find better words, everything would return to the way it had been.

It took me longer than I care to admit to realize that I wasn't searching for understanding.

I was searching for relief.

Relief comes from believing you can remove someone else's discomfort if you just explain yourself well enough. Understanding comes from two people who are equally willing to be curious about one another. One requires performance. The other requires relationship.

Those are not the same thing.

What finally changed wasn't the people around me.

It was me.

I stopped believing that every misunderstanding required my participation. I stopped assuming that my character needed constant defending. I stopped confusing being understood with being respected.

What surprised me most was not who left.

It was who stayed.

The people who had always respected my character continued to do so. They didn't suddenly require more explanations because I had changed. They didn't ask me to become softer so they could remain comfortable. They already knew who I was. One uncomfortable conversation wasn't enough to erase years of consistency.

The people who disappeared weren't revealing something new about me.

They were revealing something I hadn't wanted to see about the relationship.

That realization hurt.

It also brought an unexpected kind of peace.

I began to understand that changing from within doesn't simply alter your behavior. It changes what you are willing to participate in. Conversations that once felt normal begin to feel unnecessary. Defending yourself starts to feel exhausting instead of productive. You realize that some people aren't asking questions because they genuinely want to understand you. They are asking because they are hoping your answer will become something they can accept.

Sometimes it won't.

And that has to be allowed.

I have learned more about people by saying less than I ever learned by saying more. Silence has a way of removing the distractions. Without the extra explanations, the repeated apologies, or the long justifications, people eventually tell you everything you need to know. Some become curious. Some become defensive. Some quietly leave. Others move closer.

None of those responses are yours to manage.

That may be one of the most difficult lessons emotionally intelligent women ever learn.

We spend years believing our job is to make everyone comfortable. We become remarkably skilled at anticipating disappointment, softening difficult truths, and carrying the emotional weight of rooms we did not create. We call it kindness. Sometimes it is.

Sometimes it is fear.

There comes a moment when you realize that the life you are trying to build cannot be sustained by constantly returning to an earlier version of yourself simply because she was easier for everyone else to understand.

The respect that followed was never created by better explanations.

It was created by becoming a woman whose life was no longer organized around needing them.

That is the quiet work of changing from within.

And it changes far more than your relationships.

It changes your relationship with yourself.

Your Grit is Gorgeous. 🖤

— Maven